# Poem from Llanybri
> If you come my way that is…
> Between now and then, I will offer you
> A fist full of rock cress fresh from the bank
> The valley tips of garlic red with dew
> Cooler than shallots, a breath you can swank
> In the village when you come. At noon-day
> I will offer you a choice bowl of cawl
> Served with a ‘lover’s’ spoon and a chopped spray
> Of leeks or savori fach, not used now,
> In the old way you’ll understand. The din
> Of children singing through the eyelet sheds
> Ringing smith hoops, chasing the butt of hens;
> Or I can offer you Cwmcelyn spread
> With quartz stones from the wild scratchings of men:
> You will have to go carefully with clogs
> Or thick shoes for it’s treacherous the fen,
> The East and West Marshes also have bogs.
> Then I’ll do the lights, fill the lamp with oil,
> Get coal from the shed, water from the well;
> Pluck and draw pigeon with crop of green foil
> This your good supper from the lime-tree fell.
> A sit by the hearth with blue flames rising,
> No talk. Just a stare at ‘Time’ gathering
> Healed thoughts, pool insight, like swan sailing
> Peace and sound around the home, offering
> You a night’s rest and my day’s energy.
> You must come – start this pilgrimage
> Can you come? – send an ode or elegy
> In the old way and raise our heritage.
> We must uprise O my people. Though
> Secretly trenched in sorrel, we must
> Upshine outshine the day’s sun: and day
> Intensified by the falling prism
> Of rain shall curve our smile with straw.
> Bring plimsole plover to the tensile sand
> And with cuprite crest and petulant feet
> Distil our notes into febrile reeds
> Crisply starched at the water-rail of tides.
> On gault and greensand a gramophone stands:
> In zebrine stripes strike out the pilotless
> Age: from saxophone towns brass out the dead:
> Disinter futility, that we entombing men
> Might bridle our runaway hearts.
> On tamarisk, on seafield pools shivering
> With water-cats, ring out the square slate notes.
> Shape the birdbox trees with neumes. Wind sound
> Singular into cool and simple corners,
> Round pale bittern grass, and all unseen
> Unknown places of sheltered rubble
> Where whimbrels, redshanks, sandpipers ripple
> For the wing of living. Under tin of earth
> And wooden boles where owls break music:
> From this killing world against humanity,
> Uprise against, outshine the day’s sun.
> A curlew hovers and haunts the room.
> On bare boards creak its filleted feet:
> For freedom intones four notes of doom,
> Crept, slept, wept, kept, under aerial gloom:
> With Europe restless in hís wing beat,
> A curlew hovers and haunts the room:
> Fouls wire, pierces the upholstery bloom,
> Strikes window pane with shagreen bleat,
> Flicking scarlet tongue to a frenzied fume
> Splints hís curved beak on square glass tomb:
> Runs to and fro seeking mudsilt retreat;
> Captured, explodes a chill sky croon
> Wail-íng… pal-íng… a desolate phantom
> At the bath rim purring burbling trilling soft sweet
> Syllables of sinuous sound to a liquid moon
> Till window, wide, frees thin mails of plume,
> Fluting voice and shade through clouds moist sleet:
> A curlew hovers and haunts the room.
# Thursday September the Tenth
> So that magnetism pierces each blight
> And shallow ring: sends a scaffold of light
> Through suspended hills, drinks truculent sight
> And water-silk of day, floating splashing
> Eyelashes on about air, swilling
> Swallows clean against Sunday, clearing
> Breasts whiter than butterflies low over sill;
> Who glazed this day? Fetched labourers to spill
> About soil, spading like hairpins to till
> Of earth. Who gently lifts a strawberry set,
> Opens row to shine streamlets of violet sweat,
> Sun concentrating on circlet of dust a banquet
> Of warmth: tends garden twine unravelled on path,
> Liquid gleam round each raceme of grass, an aftermath
> That quavers like parakeet fresh out of its bath.
> Who polished this day? String of mackerel and glue
> Sized and scoured sky to its finest grain of blue:
> Flashed motor spirit through each splint of wing: drew
> And transfixed man at his most monstrous art of war:
> Picked out world mildew and muddled indifference; saw
> Heart, pressure of steel, culled into a shadowed claw
> Sharpen infinity, and all trees of branched iron,
> Leaves elliptical pinnate sprayed thinly over rinsed apron
> Of space, their metallic hue so starkly crisp, enamel legion
> Of the partial eclipse: darkening nature
> Finding a ferret of lines in each feature:
> Who clipped this white-eyed splendour? Barbed-wire-fixture.
> Meat cover on slab of slate prosecuting inkstand
> Cold basin and porcelain plate. Day’s bristol shine: a band
> Of empty beer bottles, wine jars green for thirst. So reprimand
> And commemorate, for this day will come again, war and day,
> Imprisoning each other with shylock glint: betray
> Clashing bayonets, hold up of sunny sideboard and pay.
> Who ran with the sun sandpapered the way? You
> Under arcade of bracelet blue: or was it the view
> That clarified thursday, September nineteen forty-two.